


Fic: London Bridge is Falling Down (1/1)

by eldritcher



Series: The Judas Sextet [6]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-11
Updated: 2014-09-11
Packaged: 2018-02-16 23:14:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2288123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eldritcher/pseuds/eldritcher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Albania story. Crouch, Scrimgeour and Moody want to hunt Voldemort down to his death. Voldemort, hiding in Albania, broken in both body and mind, is no match for them. Or is he?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fic: London Bridge is Falling Down (1/1)

Summary: The Albania story. Crouch, Scrimgeour and Moody want to hunt Voldemort down to his death. Voldemort, hiding in Albania, broken in both body and mind, is no match for them. Or is he?

[Written as Scrimgeour’s narration]

Warnings: Mind games

~~~

“Young Harry has been placed in the care of his mother’s sister,” Dumbledore told us.

We had convened to discuss the fallout of Voldemort’s attack on the Potters. I had no interest in the boy’s future. I think that the same held for both Alastor and Bartemius. We had a more important matter to deal with - Voldemort himself. Dumbledore insisted that we were safe for now. He also insisted that Voldemort was not dead. The rest of us did not see how both his statements could be simultaneously true. If the bastard was not dead, nothing was safe.

“You say that he is not dead?” Bartemius asked Dumbledore.

The Headmaster looked at his ornery bird with great fascination, paying no attention to Bartemius’s question. The man was halfway to Bedlam, but he was useful.

“Albus?” Alastor said sharply.

The Headmaster’s gaze turned distant and pensive. Rather sadly, he said, “Tom is still there. I believe he must regret it, if there is even anything left of him.”

“You are not making sense,” I said, seeing no reason to put up with his meandering soliloquies today.

“It is the Killing Curse,” Dumbledore explained, perhaps cottoning onto that I lacked patience for his rambling. “It rebounded on him. It likely might have ripped his soul from body and mind.”

“How is that possible?” I asked, horrified by the possibility. How were we to hunt down the twisted psychopath if he was now a detached soul with not even a corporeal body to kill?

“I am not sure,” the Headmaster said regretfully.

“You must have a guess, Dumbledore,” Bartemius said impatiently. None of us had the patience for the Headmaster’s coy answers and speculation-laden ramblings. We had needed to be patient while Voldemort had been at large.

Dumbledore looked displeased by the interjection. He shook his head and only said, “Voldemort is a powerful magician.”

“He must have lost his magic,” I cut in.

Dumbledore nodded thoughtfully. He said, “I agree with Rufus. I think Voldemort must have fled to places familiar to him. He is incorporeal, incapable of performing magic and has no assistance available. With these disadvantages, it is likely that he must have fled as far as he can from the Aurors.”

“Where?” I asked.

Alastor and Bartemius looked as keen as I did. We had waited for this day daring not to hope. We had waited for the day when tables would be turned, for the day when he would become the hunted and we the hunters.

“I must ask you to release Professor Snape from Azkaban. He has aided our effort greatly and it is a shame to have him behind the bars. It is also extremely dangerous for him given his role in the war effort,” Dumbledore said. He knew where Voldemort might hide. He wanted his turncoat freed for the information.

“As mere Aurors, we cannot do anything about prisoners awaiting trial,” I said pleasantly.

“As a humble Headmaster of a school, I am afraid I cannot speculate on the possible whereabouts of Voldemort,” Dumbledore replied equally pleasantly.

“I will sign the papers for the release of your spy,” Bartemius said irritably. “I don’t care about him. I care about where You Know Who might be hiding. I care about ending him.”

“That is very gracious of you!” Dumbledore enthused. “Minerva will be very pleased to have him back at Hogwarts.”

“Where is Voldemort hiding?”

“If I were interested to find out, I would go to Albania,” Dumbledore said quietly. “He was known to spend weeks at a stretch there.”

He bowed to us daintily and moved towards the door. He had his hand on the door-handle, when he hesitated and turned back. He seemed to be choosing words with care, for he spoke slowly.

“He must be tried by the Wizengamot.”

“If he is captured alive,” I granted.

As long as we were in charge, as long as Bartemius made policy, as long as Alastor led the raids and as long as I lead the M.L.E., Voldemort would not be captured alive. We would make sure that he was dead before anyone called for a trial.

Dumbledore said quietly, “We must be careful not to become the monsters we set out to save our world from.”

~~~

Albania’s highlands in the Balkans were densely forested, rugged and inaccessible from the coastline. Cartographers had not yet managed to map the mountains in the north of Albania. We did not know if there were giants or vampires or werewolves or other manners of creatures lurking in there. We did not yet have census figure for the different clans of Wizarding folk who lived reclusively there. Little wonder that Voldemort had chosen to flee to this desolate region.

Four of us went there. There was Barty, there was Alastor, there was Amelia, and there was me. We had been hardened by the long war, we had seen our comrades fall, we had seen our families’s butchered corpses, and we were the last in Wizarding Britain who would give Voldemort a fair chance to stand trial before the Wizengamot.

We Apparated to the Wizarding settlement at the foothills of the Albanian Alps to the north of the country.

“Have you had strangers coming by in the recent weeks?” Barty, ever polite and unassuming, the perfect mask, asked the old lady whose lodgers we were for the night.

“We don’t have strangers coming here. You are the first in years,” she said, likely hoping to know more of our purpose.

She was curious about our errand. Four foreign magicians were a novelty enough for anyone to be curious about in this wilderness. She had been paid handsomely, and her son had been offered a lowly position at the British Embassy in Albania. She would not pry, regardless of her curiosity.

Amelia spoke then, charming and quiet, a facade of wisdom born of war bright in her eyes. “Perhaps there have been strange happenings. Noises in the night?”

The old woman looked terrified and whispered, “Vampires? Are you hunting vampires?”

“Have there been any spotted recently?” I asked.

We did not know yet if Voldemort had allies here. Dumbledore thought it unlikely that Voldemort would seek out allies, when there was such a bounty on his capture. The old man was rarely wrong when it came to Voldemort. It made him useful and made us put up with his meddling and meandering.

The old woman shook her head. She hesitated, and then said, “The woodcutters speak of a restless shade in the mountains. The Muggle priest did his prayers so that the shade can find eternal rest.”

Wizards here believed often in Muggle religion. Their life was harsh, the dangers were many, and Muggle religion offered reassurance. Muggle priests exorcised ghosts and vampires, or at least so believed the folk.

Amelia said gently, “Go on, please.”

“It possesses rats,” the woman said uneasily. “It makes the woodcutters’ dogs afraid and very angry. The Muggle priest said it is a ghost.”

Later, that night, we cast the most powerful Silencing spells on our shared room, and sat down to plan. Amelia cast Runes, ancient and powerful.

“There is strong magic in the mountains,” Amelia said. “It is undirected and rather ineffectual. It does seem familiar. I believe it is the same magic that clung to the Potters’ home in Godric’s Hollow.”

Voldemort. He had not lost his magic. He had, however, lost his wand and body both.

“Alastor?” I asked the best Auror amongst us.

“We can track it down with Amelia’s runes,” he said thoughtfully. “We can cast Containment Charms to trap him in completely. We will need to think about how to dispose of him safely. We don’t want his magic harming us, undirected though it might be.”

Barty cleared his throat. There was a ruthless light in his eyes that bode no good for the subject of his musings. I had seen it often and the Death Eaters who were his targets had suffered.

“We can give him a taste of his own medicine, if you like,” he said softly, malice keening bright in his well-modulated voice.

Amelia frowned, clearly uncomfortable with Barty’s intent. She wanted to end it as soon as she could and get back to Wizarding Britain to rebuild our society. Alastor and I, however, were very interested in whatever Barty wanted to say.

“He had a lover,” Barty told us.

“Abraxas Malfoy?” Amelia asked. “Everybody knows that. What of it?”

“I had the body excavated shortly after the funeral. Powerful magic protects the site. Two Aurors lost their lives trying to bring me this,” Barty said, brandishing a glass bottle that held strands of well-preserved long, blond hair.

“Merlin!” I whispered, understanding what Barty wanted. Dumbledore had told us that Riddle’s mind was damaged by the Killing Curse.

“No!” Amelia said sharply. “Our mission is clear. We finish him and return.”

Alastor said softly, “This is the only chance to make him pay, Amelia.”

“But-”

“I am in charge here,” I told her firmly. “Barty, please brew us some Polyjuice. Did you know Abraxas Malfoy well?”

“Yes, I did,” Barty said, smiling. It was not a nice smile.

~~~

We walked into the forests the next morning under Invisibility Cloaks, tethered to each other by my powerful Protean Charms. Barty Polyjuiced into Abraxas Malfoy after we had made sure to be sufficiently away from the settlement. Alastor and Amelia cast runes to track Riddle’s broken magic and we followed them.

When we reached a clearing quiet, with not a bird in sight, surrounded by tall trees in all directions, I knew instinctively that we were close. The runes were unnecessary now, for magic dark and wounded lingered here heavy. Barty emerged from beneath his Invisibility cloak, looking effete, worried and harmless. He was a brilliant actor. Hands outstretched, face bearing deep grief, he walked into the clearing.

“Riddle?” he whispered. “Riddle?”

The magic shifted wildly. I had my wand out and ready. I knew that Amelia and Alastor would be prepared too. We had fought too long to be careless.

“Riddle?”

The magic shifted again, seeking. It tried to focus, faltered, tried again. It failed and tried, tried and failed, and tried. My father had once told me of Robert Bruce, and how he had persevered in the face of defeat. Voldemort’s remnants were as persevering, trying to reach the man who stood in the moonlit clearing. Amelia’s left hand clenched tight over mine, as if in sympathy.

“Riddle?” Barty spoke, his voice now broken and imploring.

The magic withdrew, then as I had known it would, returned, successfully reached Barty and enveloping him whole. I was worried for him, but the magic bore no malice. Instead, it seemed to settle, leaving behind fear.

“You are here,” Barty said breathlessly. “I found you. You are here. I wish I could see you.”

If it had been anyone else, I would have called Voldemort brave. He channeled his broken magic as best as he could, and materialized as a wispy ghost, flickering in and out of sight.

“Malfoy,” the ghost whispered, wide-eyed. “Malfoy, I remembered you dying.”

“Riddle, Riddle, you have been hurt,” Barty replied. “I am not dead. Neither are you.”

The ghost’s eyes were grey and wide, but still fearful, and he spoke with effort, “What was the last thing you said?”

“I said, S’agapo,” Barty said earnestly.

We had rehearsed this. Alastor had been there while Malfoy had died. Alastor had heard his dying words.

The magic rose in fearful intensity then, unfocussed and raw and full of pain, smothering us and then the ghost said, “London Bridge is broken down, Malfoy. London Bridge is broken down. I put a man to watch, and he fell asleep. I put you to watch and you died. You died. You died! These mountains are cursed. I am cursed too, because you died!”

“Hush, you are overwrought. Nobody is dead. I am here,” Barty said comfortingly, without missing a beat.

Voldemort surrendered then. The magic yielded. He yielded as he had never yielded to anyone before. Without qualm, the ghost said softly, “Keep me then, mon bon chevalier.”

 

 

 

As one, Alastor and I cast our Containment charms, trapping the ghost that was not. The ghost vanished, the magic reared, then railed in vain against our powerful charms. Then it flickered to near non-existence, and all we could sense was despair and a desperate desire to die. We took off our Cloaks. I saw that Amelia was crying. Alastor looked shaken. Only Barty and I remained unmoved.

In the end, it had only taken love to break the monster.

~~~

We reached a safe-house pre-arranged for us on an island in the Ionic Sea. Amelia was quiet. She was pale and kept her distance away from Barty. Alastor, Barty and I were exultant. We had finally trapped the monster. Now we could show him what it meant to be on the receiving end of cruelty.

Alastor cast magic dampening charms on the room. Amelia cast her runes of protection, her pale face speaking of her discomfort. Barty and I had our wands out, ready to cast Legilimency, to find out what secrets the monster yet hoarded. We needed to know why he was yet alive. We needed to know how to kill him.

“Legilimens!” we yelled, as one.

It was a cacophony of fear and pain and the horror of being betrayed. Underlying it all was a pervading sense of despair wound tightly with the realization that Abraxas was dead. There were memories shifting by, too fast for us to discern anything, like torrential water through the gutters of London after the rains.

“There!” Barty exclaimed, directing my mind to the quarry. What Barty lacked in raw talent, he usually made up for with concentration. He had done that again. There was something hidden, deep beneath the emotional turbulence. The monster yet clung to that hidden pocket of the mind tight.

That must be the secret of his survival then. Barty and I sought to get at it, but the broken magic protected it well. Even in madness, there was still a modicum of precision and intent. The magic flailed and staggered, but it still prevailed. I looked at Alastor. He nodded grimly and cast his spell to join ours. Together, underneath our powerful spells, the barrier of protection broke and we saw the memory.

It was not about the secret of his survival. It was about an ugly, sallow man whose nude form was very carefully cherished and remembered. It was Dumbledore’s spy. Voldemort was, in the end, only a foolish idiot, as many old men are. He had been brought down with the inside information carefully gathered by the young lover he had taken after Abraxas Malfoy’s death a few years ago.

It was Merlin and Nimue again, wasn’t it? He had taught his young protege all that he knew, and his protege had sealed his fate. Yet, even here, even now, in the weakest of form, Voldemort still clung to the memory, unaware of who had sealed his doom. His magic was raw, dispersed and frightened, but persevered valiantly to throw our spells off.

It was then that I had my finest idea.

Quietly, gathering all my magic, I spoke the word that would break this monster.

“Obliviate!”

The magic broke then, and crashed upon us, splitting our wands into smithereens. Our Containment charms did not hold and our runes were of no use. Amelia had great presence of mind. She cast a powerful Shield Charm and saved us from the dark lashes of mad magic.

We stood, four of us, in the empty room, among the devastation and there was no trace of our prey.

~~~

Amelia was discomfited by the Memory Charm we had used, and by the reaction it had caused. However, she knew nothing of what we had seen in Voldemort’s memories. Barty, Alastor and I had agreed that it was best to keep her in the dark. Let her think that we had used the spell to make Voldemort forget some possible way to return to corporeal form.

~~~

“Well?” I asked Barty, after we had reached Britain. We were in Barty’s parlour, smoking our cigars after a leisurely dinner.

“Alastor was sure that the Memory Charm took. We suspect that the force of it might have shattered the bastard’s already wrecked mind,” Barty said. “Let the creature wander the forests of Albania trying to remember. It will break him more effectively than Azkaban can. In the unlikely case the monster returns, we know he will return with his mind shattered and befuddled.”

“We should tie up the loose ends,” I said cautiously.

“The Malfoys are the only ones who likely know,” Barty said pensively. “Lucius Malfoy is trying to bribe his way out of trouble. His pretty, young wife is frightened and wants their baby son to be raised by two parents.”

“An Unbreakable Vow, then,” I said. “Their silence for staying out of Azkaban. And let them swear on their son’s life.”

Barty nodded in agreement. It was cruel to demand that parents swear on the life of a newborn babe, but the Malfoys only had themselves to blame. They had stood by the monster while the monster had hunted newborn babes.

“What about Dumbledore?” I asked. “What does he know? It is his spy, after all. He is an extremely skilled Legilimens.”

Barty laughed in true amusement. Then he said, “If he knew, Rufus, he would have done something. I think his spy is a better Occlumens than all of us have given him credit for.”

This was all quite neat. The spy would never dare tell anyone his sordid secret. His best chance was Dumbledore and a clean slate. In the unlikely event Voldemort returned, the spy stood to lose the most, given his betrayal. His lips would remain sealed. Then there was the Malfoys too, who would be dealt with. There was Dumbledore, who did not know.

This had been my finest idea.

~~~

1994.

Dumbledore and I stood in the anteroom of the Minister’s office after the Tri-Wizard Tournament. His spy was there too, by his side, as loyal and house-trained as any of Dumbledore’s standard-bearers were.

“Cornelius is a busy man,” Dumbledore said pleasantly, his blue eyes carefully taking in my battle-ready form all the while.

“What happened to Barty?” I asked quietly. “What happened to Alastor?”

Dumbledore frowned. I knew something had gone wrong badly. My Aurors had told me that many of the old Death Eater crowd that had evaded Azkaban had left suddenly, as if called inexorably from their supper tables and hearth-fires. Alastor had not replied to my letters in a long while. Barty had replied, but had evaded me at the Ministry ever so often. I had become increasingly worried over the year and now Harry Potter had returned with a schoolboy’s corpse and raved about Voldemort returning.

“Young Mr. Crouch killed his father,” Dumbledore said. The lines on his face were deep and heavy.

“Barty’s son died in Azkaban years ago,” I said, disbelieving, and yet beginning to comprehend. Barty’s wife had loved that boy. The boy had hated his father. Barty had hated his son. Barty, though, had loved his wife and had never gone against a single whim of hers.

“His mother made a sacrifice,” Dumbledore said. The spy coughed. I raised my eyebrows.

Dumbledore’s penchant for casting everybody’s folly as sacrifice born of love had not changed. He was wrong. It was only folly. Voldemort had clung to the memories of this spy as Merlin had clung to Nimue.

“The time has come again for all of us to stand together and defend the Wizarding World,” Dumbledore said quietly.

“The Aurors are ready,” I promised him. “Voldemort, you will find, is nowhere as dangerous as he was the last time around.”

“I am not sure what you did in Albania, Rufus,” Dumbledore replied. “Regardless, I am convinced it was not in our best interests. What happened to Barty and what happened to Alastor makes me worry. I would advise Amelia and you to be careful. Tom always had a long memory for grudges.”

He did look truly concerned.

~~~

1995.

Alastor and Amelia came to my house shortly after Umbridge had been appointed a Professor at Hogwarts.

Cornelius was going increasingly overboard in his bid to delude the public. The upper echelons of the Ministry were worried. I trained my Aurors. The Death Eaters were organizing in the time Cornelius wasted on pandering to the public. From what intelligence reports crossed my desk, Voldemort himself was obsessed with Potter and held waning interest for his previous ambitions.

“What do you think?” Amelia asked in a hushed tone. “We should join Dumbledore. He has had plans ready for years.”

“I would not worry,” I said reassuringly. “Voldemort is obsessed with Potter and immortality.”

“He is obsessed with something he thinks is important,” Alastor said sharply. “He is obsessed with what he has forgotten. He believes it very important and there are high bounties on our heads for being brought alive before him. He wants to know what we Obliviated. He guesses that it is something to do with Potter.”

“All the better for us,” I said. “Let him waste his time obsessing. We shall have the time to train our Aurors and take him down.”

“He is mad, but capable,” Amelia said, worried. “I don’t doubt that your Obliviate has shattered his mind. Even so, he is remarkably calculating and skilled in his cruelty, has regained his followers, and I don’t see how this changes anything for the Wizarding World.”

~~~

1996.

“Rufus?” a knock on my door broke my musings. I had been staring at a photograph of my Hogwarts Seventh Year. There was Alastor, there was Barty, there was Amelia and there was me. All of us had looked confident and brave.

“Albus,” I greeted my guest politely and let him in.

He meandered over to the photograph and sighed.

“Albus?”

“It is with the greatest of grief that I come to you today,” he said softly.

“Albus?”

“Madam Bones is dead.”

I looked at the photograph. Amelia waved at me and blew me a cheeky kiss. Her hair tumbled down her crimson gown in waves. She had helped me cheat in the Arithmancy O.W.L. She liked my tea and often dropped into my office on winter mornings, waiting patiently while the tea steeped.

“How?” I asked Dumbledore, who was now offering me his garish handkerchief.

“Voldemort himself,” he said quietly. “She was found inside a locked room. It was gruesome.” He cleared his throat before saying, “She held her own against him for a while and acquitted herself in the duel.”

“Duel?” I whispered.

Alastor had once told me about that. Voldemort liked to duel his opponents. He believed it was fair. What fairness was there in dueling madness itself?

“I was there after I heard about it,” Dumbledore said. “The air speaks of rage and disappointment. It might seem as if Voldemort sought answers and obtained none. He was unnecessarily cruel.”

“Isn’t he always?” I said glumly.

“More so than is usual for him,” Dumbledore told me, his eyes still on the girl waving at me from the photograph.

~~~

 

1997.

Alastor and I walked back from Dumbledore’s funeral together.

“I had told him not to trust that sniveling spy!” Alastor raged.

I had other matters on my mind. The Ministry was being infiltrated. Harry Potter was proving to be as difficult to handle as Dumbledore had been. Dumbledore had fallen. He had been powerful and Voldemort’s most feared opponent. The spy had fled.

“Perhaps it is time to apprise Voldemort of why he fell the last time,” I told Alastor. “Perhaps it is time to unveil the identity of his Judas.”

“His spy killed Dumbledore for him!” Alastor exclaimed. “Forgive me, but I think anyone who killed Dumbledore is likely to be in the Dark Lord’s good books regardless of whatever slander might be rumoured of him.”

“You think Voldemort will not believe it from an unidentified source? I feel otherwise. He is paranoid.”

Alastor shrugged and said carefully, “I don’t know, Rufus. I have been thinking. I can’t make sense of it. Dumbledore was not a fool. I desire revenge for his death, but I think we should hold off exposing Snape’s role. Something tells me that the time is not right.”

“He will come after us.”

“I know,” Alastor said quietly. “I am not frightened.”

~~~

Minerva McGongall visited me at the Ministry on the 28th of July, 1997. She looked tired and careworn.

“Alastor is dead,” she told me without preface.

I nodded and offered her tea. She drank it gratefully and said not a word more. Perhaps she merely wanted to be somewhere where she was not burdened with responsibility. She was Dumbledore’s leftovers, fighting a lost battle, and hoping desperately that Potter would come through before our world was shattered.

“You should go,” I told her kindly. “It is not safe anymore here.”

I walked her to the Floo. She made a queer noise, halfway between a sob and a laugh, turned to embrace me impulsively. I patted her shoulder awkwardly and helped her into the Floo. I bid her goodbye and walked back to my office to wait for death.

~~~

Death came by on the first of August. When we heard about the coup, I asked my Aurors to leave. My personal guard protested, but I cut them off, telling them that they needed to leave to be able to continue fighting.

“Voldemort is here,” I told them. “I don’t want all of us dying here for no purpose. Get away while you can!”

I defended their escape as best as I could, and waited for the Death Eaters to surround me.

“Bring Scrimgeour to me!” a high, cold voice ordered.

I shrugged off the grip of the Death Eater who had taken my arm, and walked forward jauntily, as if I were not afraid.

“Hello,” I told the monster. “You have improved in health since we last met in Albania.”

“Crucio!”

His magic, the only time I had been exposed to it, had been wretched, unfocussed and broken. Now it was a beautiful, cold, accurate weapon, flung at me with intent and utmost cruelty. I screamed.

“We shall have this conversation the easy way if you wish,” he promised me.

“You wish!” I spat.

“Bring him to Malfoy Manor,” he ordered his Death Eaters, who scurried to comply.

I had been to Malfoy Manor before, to extract a promise from the Malfoys to keep the secret I did not want Voldemort remembering. Now it was a far cry from those days. There was blood on the mantel and there was blood on the fair Narcissa’s robes. I could see resignation in her soft, blue eyes when she saw me brought captured as prey for the Dark Lord. I heard a sigh then. Nobody would have dared sigh, nobody but two brave men. I looked around, half-expecting to see Dumbledore or Harry Potter. Instead, my eyes alighted on a portrait of a fair man.

“Abraxas,” I wheezed in greeting, as if this was a courtesy visit.

Voldemort’s wand twitched in his fingers, but he did nothing as he watched the portrait with eyes narrowed. Abraxas Malfoy said nothing to my greeting.

“Narcissa, give the Minister his wand,” Voldemort said softly. “Let us have a duel, Scrimgeour. If you beg nicely enough, I can grant you an easier death than that of Madam Bones.”

I took a deep breath. It would do me no good to be Harry Potter and rage at him for his words. I only had one chance. I knew what I had to do. I shielded my mind just as his powerful Legilimency struck me.

“Playing coy, are we?” he hissed, as we circled each other. The Death Eaters watched us alertly. I wondered how many of them would have liked me to win.

“Crucio!” he shouted, simultaneously making a wiping motion with his left hand to dispel my Shield charm. Before the pain drowned me, I remembered Alastor saying that this was Voldemort’s favourite word.

“Legilimens!” he shouted then, ripping into my mind easily. He sifted through the memories quickly and expertly as if he had done this to a hundred victims before, while I still cried in pain, on my knees before him, brought low by his Cruciatus. He stopped suddenly, hissing as if in discomfort.

“Leave!” he told his Death Eaters, his scarlet eyes wide in fear and hope.

We were now alone and the portraits of Malfoys gone were the only onlookers.

“Who was it?” he demanded, drawing closer greedily.

“Who was what?” I asked, wiping blood off my lips and standing up shakily.

“The memory,” he hissed impatiently. “You robbed me of a memory in Albania. Who was it in the memory?”

“I have no idea which rentboy you were fucking there,” I mocked. “There were so many and I have never bothered to hunt them down. Your memories were a letdown. There was nothing scholarly or clever in them, there was just a lot of fucking.”

Abraxas Malfoy shifted in his portrait.

“Crucio!” Voldemort said impatiently, bringing me to my knees again.

“Who was it?” he asked, as I heaved after the spasms had receded.

“Fancied yourself in love, didn’t you?” I mocked again.

“Crucio!” he cried out. “Legilimens!”

He tore through my mind, discarding the useless, setting aside the relevant and searching relentlessly for what he truly wanted to know. I let him. I had known this was coming after Amelia’s death. I had torn the memory apart as irreversibly as I could, and I had known how to do it unlike the idiot Lockhart.

“Who was it?” he demanded.

“I can’t remember,” I said easily.

“Crucio!” he said again, but I played my ace before his curse could break me again.

“Crucio!” I cried and he throw up a powerful Shield Charm to spare himself my Curse, but I hadn’t aimed it at him. A cry broke his Shield Charm as his concentration fell.

Then I yelled a Fiendfyre curse, channeling all my magic with effort.

The portrait behind him cried out in pain. Voldemort turned in fear, his wand outstretched, to watch the portrait of Abraxas Malfoy being consumed by Fiendfyre. He tried in vain to quench the flames, but his concentration was paltry and his fear broke his flawless casting. He finally succeeded in controlling the Fiendfyre and subduing it, but it was too late. He turned back to face me.

He was a fool. He was the greatest fool, I reflected, as I saw the grief writ large on his face.

“You watched him die twice,” I told him. “How do you feel?”

“Crucio!” he hissed, as if it was the only word he knew. While I danced in pain, his eyes were distant and full of grief as he stared at the cinders around his feet.

When the Curse fell, I found I could no longer muster the strength necessary to get up. So I lay there, and told him, “The portrait could have told you, you fool. The portrait was the last thing in this world that knew the answer you sought.”

“It wasn’t a rent boy,” he said solemnly, watching me heave and pant and bleed on the fine carpets of Malfoy Manor.

“You will never know, will you?” I mocked. “You could kill everyone in the world, and you would still never know. You will never know if you asked this lover of yours to keep you, like you once begged Barty in the Albanian forests. You beg so pitifully and in French, like the nancy-boy that you are - keep me then, mon bon chevalier, you begged. London Bridge is falling down, you begged.”

His wand faltered, his eyes closed as if in remembered pain, and his composure was terribly shaken, but he took a deep breath as if to stave it all off, and said, “It matters not. My pleasant pastime for this evening is to end you.”

Then he raised his wand again. I summoned what was left of my strength and pulled to the forefront of my mind my memories of Albania, my memories of the wretched ghost that had been taken in by Barty’s artifice.

Voldemort yelled in rage and pain, and he could only speak one word again and again.

“Crucio!”

~~~

* * *

A/N: I’d love to know what you think of this. It kind of forms the ending for all the little stories set around Eldritch, if you like sequential pieces.

London Bridge is Falling Down - is a nursery rhyme that is supposed to be about bodies buried under the Bridge (an old practice for superstitious reasons).  
Albanian Mountains - called the Cursed mountains, the Prokletije in the north of Albania in the Balkans.  
Merlin and Nimue - Merlin supposedly teaches her all that he knows, and in the end he is trapped by her.  
~~~

 


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